by Anna Lord
“Yes, yes,” he cut off impatiently, “but what has a blonde child got to do with her disappearance? Let’s say she had a child or adopted a child and the child died – what then? How is it relevant? Even if she was suffering from maternal melancholia, which didn’t appear to be the case judging from the time I spent in her company, then what – she throws herself off the ramparts in a delayed pique of melancholic grief? No, no, Reichenbach and I scoured the rocks and the parapets. There was no sign of anything or anyone anywhere. There were some wolves sleeping in between the rocks and we checked that spot even more carefully. The wolves weren’t gnawing away at any bones. There was no hint, no trace, of any clothing or blood. The eagle theory is starting to look plausible. I cannot believe I just said that!”
He emerged from behind the screen looking dapper and reached for his silver etui. For a man who had reached his forty-sixth year he was still quite fit and trim. He had not grown paunchy as so many men his age had done, though that persistent cough had drained him of healthy colour and vigour.
“Have I got time for a cigarette?”
“Not really, light one up and we can talk as we go. I’ve saved the best for last.”
She straightened his white tie while he took his first puff.
“Go on,” he prompted, enjoying the personal feminine attention but trying not to show it.
“Someone visited the bed of our hostess between my first visit to her chamber to inform her that her servants did not turn up this morning and when I returned with Moriarty this afternoon.”
“You said bed not bedroom.”
“Quite! Now, it could not have been any of the servants because Xenia and Fedir swore they had not left the kitchen area. It could not have been any of us since we were all pre-occupied. You must trust me when I say the bed had been disturbed. Moriarty and I searched everywhere for a possible secret tunnel – nothing!”
He stopped walking and looked her squarely in the eye. “You realize what that means?”
Unable to trust her voice, she nodded and looked back over her shoulder.
Prince Orczy was uncorking a bottle of burgundy. The other three men were hovering around the dining table. Food was being kept warm using silver cloches. Meaty broth was steaming in a large tureen. Moriarty had informed Inez and Velazquez to ladle out the soup and then return to the kitchen. They would continue to serve themselves. The discussion began in earnest once the six dinner guests were sure they were alone in the great hall.
Baron Reichenbach explained that he and his counterpart had not found anything to suggest foul play or even suicide. Dr Watson backed him up. The view from the ramparts provided an uninterrupted vantage point of the surrounding terrain and the slope. He mentioned the wolves, and the fact the rockslide was still being cleared.
Von Gunn went next. He described how he and his comrade had checked the domestic rooms, armoury, well, and dungeons. They could not swear there was no dead body hidden somewhere in all those storerooms but if that was the case someone had gone to a good deal of effort to hide it.
Moriarty described how he and the Countess had checked the eight guest bedrooms and found nothing untoward. The garderobes were likewise checked and the iron grids meant it would have been impossible to dispose of a body down the chutes. When he got to the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf he allowed the Countess to take over.
Not one to waste words she launched straight into the doll under the pillow, the photo on the bedside table and the painted miniature.
“Well, that’s interesting,” said the Prince. “There was a small chamber adjoining the bedroom of the old couple. It contained a child’s cot and a chest of girl’s clothes. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I presumed they had had a child who had since died. But if we link it to the things found in the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf then it puts a different perspective on it.”
“Yes,” concurred the Baron, leaping ahead. “The old couple might have murdered the girl they had been charged to care for while the Singing Wolf was in Biarritz. They then murdered their mistress too and stashed the body somewhere. They are frail but they had all night in which to conceal it and no one would know the secrets of this castle better than they.”
“But why?” asked Dr Watson, who was a stickler for things like motive.
The Baron shrugged his shoulders as he slurped his soup.
“The girl might have died by accident,” supplied Von Gunn. “They may have been negligent in their duty and knew they would be in serious trouble once their mistress returned. You would be appalled to discover what some servants try to get away with. The old man and woman are always averting their gaze, refusing to look you in the eye. I don’t believe they are half-blind and half-deaf. I think it’s a ruse to feign ignorance.”
“Or else they are deranged,” suggested the Prince, giving his imagination free reign. “A lifetime of being cooped up in this isolated stronghold with that dungeon downstairs attached to that gruesome torture chamber might have sent them mad. They might have killed the girl and chopped her into a thousand pieces. Did anyone check what went into this broth?”
“Shut-up!” barked Moriarty. “We want clear-thinking not gothique fiction!”
The Baron leapt to the Prince’s defence. “I think Orczy has a point. I don’t mean about the broth. I mean about the old couple being strange. They are definitely hiding something.”
Dr Watson swallowed the last mouthful of broth and tried not to gag. “I am loath to promote fanciful theories but generations of in-breeding in isolated areas have been known to increase lunacy in family members. Eighty years of living in a Cathar castle with its grisly history, well, it might just tip the scales of minor madness into full-blown insanity.”
“I would push me over the edge!” declared the Prince.
“Anything would push you over the edge!” derided von Gunn.
“Let us stay focused, gentlemen,” advised Moriarty. “We cannot afford to fall out amongst ourselves. It will play into the hands of our enemy.”
“Enemy?” challenged the Baron, uncorking another red and passing it round.
Moriarty looked meaningfully at the Countess. “Please explain about the bed.”
While the men helped themselves to suckling pig and roasted vegetables she explained that someone had been in the bed of the Singing Wolf between the morning and the afternoon, and that it could not have been any of the servants.
A strange uneasy silence fell over the table while the men digested this latest bit of news, and to say a cold shiver passed down their spines would not have been putting too fine a point on it. Moriarty broke the tranced spell, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard.
“Just in case it needs spelling out, gentlemen, we are not alone in this castle.”
The spectre of some all-pervading fear suddenly took form. Six pairs of eyes glanced furtively past the shoulders of those seated opposite.
“That lends credence to my suggestion about a secret tunnel,” asserted von Gunn.
“Keep your voice down,” growled Moriarty. “But yes, I’m afraid it does.”
“When you say enemy,” said Dr Watson, backtracking, “I presume you mean Sarazan?”
Moriarty nodded grimly.
Everyone began drawing their own conclusions. Herr von Gunn was the first to voice them.
“The old crazy couple would be sure to know if there is a secret tunnel.”
“They could have been threatened by Sarazan,” added the Baron, who always found his servants to be loyal and steadfast, “and it’s possible his band of brigands will enter the castle tonight aided and abetted by the old couple against their will.”
“The murderous thugs will slit our throats one by one as we sleep in our beds,” predicted the Prince, and this time no one bothered to deride his gothique imagination - they were all thinking the same thing.
“Gentleman,” said Moriarty, “may I remind you we have a lady in our midst. Alarming prognostication might be better
reserved for later in the night.”
The Countess was quick to up-braid him. “Such thinking, though well-meaning is counter-productive. We are in this together, gentlemen. I think we need to air all manner of possibilities now, no matter how distasteful. If there is going to be some sort of attack by Sarazan, or even if we have two deranged servants in our midst, we need to prepare -”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the Prince. “What if the food has been poisoned!”
“Then we won’t need to worry about an attack by Sarazan,” said Moriarty dryly, spearing a piece of pork.
Dr Watson intervened. “We need to prepare ourselves – is that what you were going to say?”
The Countess nodded.
Reichenbach’s military background came to the fore. “To avoid being picked off one by one we should all sleep in the great hall tonight. There is safety in numbers. Two men will take turns keeping watch. I can take first watch with Orczy. Von Gunn and Dr Watson will take the second. Moriarty and Velazquez will take the third.”
“I don’t think we should let the servants know what we are doing,” argued von Gunn. “If the old couple gets wind of our plan from Velazquez they may tip Sarazan off.”
“He’s right,” agreed Moriarty. “The Countess’s man could take the third watch with me. If there is an attack it will come from the direction of the domestic rooms. The two doors at the end of the wings are solid oak with good bolts. I checked them today. It would take a battering ram to force entry. There is no way anyone can scale the south tower and get through the window in the latrine – which, by the way, is the only window facing outwards. We can tip the dining table on its side and it will provide good cover in the event of a gun fight.”
“We can do the same with the desk in the library and the pews in the chapel,” suggested the Prince who was actually feeling a rush of adrenaline similar to when he gambled. “That will allow us to spread out and draw fire.”
“Good thinking,” said Moriarty. “The Countess and her maid can sleep by the fire. Two men can sleep in the library, two in the chapel, two in the dining room. With a bit of luck we should be able to hold off an attack that can come from only two directions – the south tower via those back spiral stairs and the stairs from the kitchen.”
“You presume it will not come from the front door?” put von Gunn.
They all turned to look at the heavy iron-studded door and noticed that the bolts were not in place. No one had bothered to lock it. Dr Watson moved quickly to remedy the oversight.
“It would take a battering ram to get through there,” he asserted, sounding a lot more confident than he felt.
They moved to the settees by the fire and passed around the humidor. The bottle of cognac that von Gunn had brought up from the cellar remained unopened. By the time Inez and Velazquez arrived to clear the table the six guests appeared comfortably sated, puffing on their cigars. No one wanted dessert and the apple tart was taken back down to the kitchen. But the coffee was welcomed and Baron Reichenbach, sensing it was going to be a long night, asked for another two pots to be sent up.
Orczy suggested a game of cards to help pass the time until the servants retired for the night. Moriarty and the Countess begged off. The four men adjourned to a corner of the library.
“Do you work for a living, Colonel Moriarty?” posed the Countess as soon as she was alone with the Irishman, having pondered a good deal about Dr Watson’s remark regarding criminal empires and the control of.
He did not take offence at her probing. “I would like to say I am independently wealthy but that is not the case. I’m a speculator.”
“What sort of speculator?”
“The sort who makes money.”
“Is there anything in particular you speculate in – art, books, property, stocks, railway bonds, government bonds?” She refrained from adding bank robbery, murder on demand, extortion and so on, though to be fair he had so far behaved impeccably and if she was about to find herself under attack from brigands she could not think of a better champion to have at her side. That went for the other men as well. There was not a coward among them.
“All of the aforesaid – and every penny has been ploughed into the family folly known as Ballyfolly in Ballygally Bay, county Antrim, Ireland - a spectacular ruin that I have decided to make my life’s work. If you know of any heiresses with matrimony in mind do not hesitate to point them in my direction for it is universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a large fortune is in need of a husband to relieve her of it.”
The Countess laughed. “A nice paraphrasing of Miss Austin but as someone in possession of a large fortune I can assure you the last thing a woman needs is a husband to relieve her of it.”
“I am under the impression you have two large fortunes.”
“Who told you that?”
“Orczy was acquainted with your step-father and step-aunt. He assures me you inherited both their fortunes.”
“You have been misinformed. I am, in fact, in possession of three large fortunes. My late husband was an extremely wealthy man. I have extensive land-holdings in Australia from which I derive a substantial income.”
“In that case I would deprive you of only one fortune. You could keep the other two.”
“I prefer to keep all three.
“More’s the pity.”
She decided to change the subject. His disarming charm was becoming alarmingly attractive. If she wasn’t careful she would end up bankrolling a folly and have no fortune at all.
“Do you think the rockslide was deliberate?”
“Engineered to stop us leaving?”
“Yes.”
He gave it a quick thought and shook his head. “No, the rockfall was substantial. If not for the dry moat the entire barbican gate might have collapsed. The fire, however, I have given some considerable thought to and I believe you are right. It was deliberately lit. The speed with which our hostess had us all up here suggests this trip was planned in advance.”
“That theory is substantiated by the bedchambers.”
“The bedchambers?”
“Our hostess was a self-confessed recluse. This was her private sanctuary. She described it as her mountain retreat. Yet there are four guest rooms in the west wing all beautifully furnished, plus four more in the east wing which are comfortable but not sumptuous. It is my guess the four bedrooms in the west wing were decorated specifically for each of you. Your bedroom, for instance, has paintings of Ireland and is decorated in emerald green. Herr von Gunn’s has a Germanic feel and is decorated in burgundy. Baron Reichenbach’s has a lot of medieval hardware such as swords and shields and is decorated in Prussian blue. Prince Orczy’s room features some small European masterpieces and is decorated in royal purple.”
He regarded her with astonishment. “Bloody hell! You’re right!”
She ignored the profanity. “The Singing Wolf was not expecting Dr Watson or me to be on this trip. Our rooms are comfortable but not on a par. There are no expensive artworks, the candlesticks are wooden, and the furniture is mis-matched. There’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“Why go to all that trouble and then disappear?”
13
Setting a Trap
Later that same evening Countess Volodymyrovna informed her two servants of the plan that had been hatched at the dinner table. She sent Xenia and Fedir back down to the kitchens to keep watch. It was ten minutes before eleven when the pair returned to the great hall to inform her that the other servants had taken themselves off to bed and that the doors leading into the courtyard from the kitchen, laundry room and scullery had been bolted. This was only slightly reassuring for the thought of a secret tunnel lingered at the back of everyone’s mind.
The return of Fedir and Xenia triggered a frenzy of activity. Bedding was dragged into the hall to create makeshift beds. Guns were checked and ammunition was counted.
“Don’t waste your bullets, gentlemen,” advised Reichen
bach. “We don’t have an unlimited supply.”
“Are you thinking there will be more than one attack?” asked Dr Watson, thinking ahead to the next night and then the one after that with a terrible sinking feeling.
“It’s not something we can discount,” added the Baron grimly.
“Then we should aim to kill as many as possible tonight,” responded von Gunn. “I say an all-out assault should be our plan. Spare no bullets. Let Sarazan know we mean business.”
“How many brigands did Sarazan have?” posed the Countess. “You got the best look as they retreated, Colonel Moriarty. How many would you say?”
“I’d estimate there were about fifteen.”
“That’s not many,” said the Prince optimistically. “We should see them off easily. One bullet will have them fleeing down the stairs.”
“That’s not a good strategy,” countered the Colonel unequivocally. “We should let as many as possible enter the great hall before we open fire. If we allow them to flee back down the stairs we will not be able to follow without endangering our own lives. Once we break cover and give chase we are lost.”
“We also then open ourselves up to a long siege,” predicted the Countess. “Sarazan can sit it out for as long as it takes. He will simply wait for us to run out of ammunition or starve to death. I suggest one person gives the word to shoot. We should all hold fire until the signal is given.”
“I can do that,” volunteered von Gunn.
The Baron got his back up at once. “You have no military experience. Manufacturing munitions is not the same as leading a battle charge. My military record speaks for itself. My family history goes back to Charlemagne. I should give the signal.”